


Photograms

by 1909vintage



Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, The Book of Dust - Philip Pullman
Genre: F/M, Gen, His Dark Materials - Freeform, The Book of Dust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-17 22:48:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21551026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1909vintage/pseuds/1909vintage
Summary: Lyra Silvertongue and Serafina Pekkala visit with each other and, far away, Mary Malone receives a mysterious envelope. Takes place soon before or sometime a little while after the events of The Secret Commonwealth.
Relationships: Lyra Belacqua/Will Parry
Comments: 2
Kudos: 46





	Photograms

The day that Lyra Silvertongue and Queen Serafina Pekkala came to visit the Witches' Consul in Trollesund was an exciting, though politically ticklish, day for Dr. Lanselius. The girl—woman, now, he supposed—had not been there since that day she had picked out Serafina’s cloud-pine from all the others.

The girl, woman, Lyra arrived first, looking excited, but shy, somehow. Lanselius greeted her with great respect, and led her back to the parlor. When Serafina arrived, Lyra’s entire being seemed to light up with joy. She ran to Serafina and they embraced like sisters. Of course, as far as Serafina was concerned, they were sisters.

Back in the parlor, the two spent many hours simply sitting and talking on the grand sofa beneath the arched window. Dr. Lanselius, of course, did not listen in. Such things would be beneath his station. Late in the afternoon, the consul brought them a tray of tea and sandwiches.

“Ladies,” he said, as he collected the cleared cups and saucers, “if I may be so bold, it has become traditional for consuls to take photograms of auspicious visits to their premises. If the two of you allowed, I would be honored to take your portrait.”

The women exchanged a look. “Yes Martin,” said Serafina, “we would like that very much.”

“Very well I shall grab the apparatus,” said Dr. Lanselius, bustling around the room, taking pieces of equipment out of various cupboards and cabinets. When the camera was ready, Serafina and Lyra moved closer to the center of the sofa. Serafina reached over to clasp Lyra’s hands in her own, and the shutter clicked.

He took one more of the women sitting together. They called their daemons in from the outside to sit with them for the third photogram.

They visited for several more hours after this, and then both rose to depart. Serafina needed nothing more than her cloud pine branch, while Lyra fastened herself back into her heavy, fur-lined coat.

As they said their goodbyes in the doorway of the consulate, Dr Lanselius could not help but notice that the manner in which the late afternoon, northern sun framed the two women was nothing short of, well, his practical mind did not like such fanciful words, but, ethereal.

“Ladies if you please, one more photogram.” Lyra looked bemused, and Serafina nonplussed, but agreeable. The shutter clicked. The women kissed goodbye, and Dr. Lanselius bowed to them both. 

“Of course I will send you the photogram prints when they are ready,” he assured them.

With that, Serafina leapt into the sky, and Lyra slowly made her way back to the harbor to find a ship which would take her home.

***   
Dr. Lanselius made five sets of prints of the four photograms: one for Lyra, one for Serafina, one for the Consulate, and one for, well, no one, really. He simply made extras whenever circumstances allowed.

On the back of every copy of every photogram, he wrote the identities of the women pictured, the name of their daemons, the date, and the location of their taking. He was a very thorough man.

***   
It had been many years since Lord Asriel had torn a hole in the sky. It was closed now. The weather, the lights, the music of the North had returned to their proper positions and behaviors. 

She, of course, did not need to tear holes in the aurora or cut windows to travel between the worlds. Her kind had never required any such crude methods. All they had to do was see, and feel.

That night she had a destination. Floating unheard and unseen into that world’s Consulate of the Witches, she slid a few pieces of treated paper off of a desk, concealed them within a specially folded piece of parchment, and slid back into the night. 

It was unusual for her kind to carry physical objects. They were creatures of light and thought and ideas, not things. But this was different. She knew.

***   
It was a beautiful autumn day in Oxford. Mary Malone was puttering about her flat when she heard a faint tingle from the front room. No one was there, but the entrance to the mail slot was moving slightly. And on the floor directly beneath it lay an unsealed, unmarked envelope. She opened the front door to take a quick look into the corridor. No one was there. It was very strange.

Mary picked up the envelope and pulled out its contents. For a moment, she thought someone had anonymously sent her antique photographs from the 19th century, but then her breath caught in her throat.

She knew the women in this ancient-looking photograph. Serafina Pekkala was smiling out at her from so far, impossibly far away. Serafina Pekkala, whom she had met once, and known less for a month. Yet, Mary loved her ferociously, and in that moment felt the absence of her presence keenly, though their acquaintanceship had been brief.

Mary’s eyes moved to the young woman sitting next to Serafina. She was very pretty. She had a kind, warm face framed by thick golden curls, partially tied off her face with a ribbon. She was smiling, but there was a sadness in her eyes. She was dressed simply in a long brown skirt, a white blouse, and strong, lace-up boots.

She turned the photo over. In delicate spidery script, someone had written “Lyra Silvertongue and Queen Serafina Pekkala, Witches' Consulate, Trollesund, 2009. Photogram taken by Dr. Martin Lanselius.”

She’d immediately known the second woman in the photograph to be Lyra, Mary realized, but it was too strange. In her mind, Lyra was still the odd, insistent child who had barged into her lab, demanded to see her work, and somehow, knew it better than Mary. And then, Lyra was the slightly older child she had met again in the world of the mulefa. That child had been weary, wounded somehow, but beautifully, blissfully in love.

This grown woman was neither of those girls. But of course, she had to remember, Lyra was Will’s age, and Will was in his final year of university. Of course Lyra no longer looked like a young girl.

She swallowed painfully. Will. She would have to show these to Will. He was a good, serious young man, devoted to his mother and to his studies. He and Mary met at least twice a week, sometimes just to sit at opposite sides of a table, sip their tea, and speak of nothing. It was an odd, but enduring friendship, one which Mary had no desire to disrupt.

They did not often speak of their experiences in the other world; it was enough to know that they shared an understanding. Neither pushed or pressed the other to speak of their journeys. They had already told each other much of what happened, and if there was something else to say, well, Mary trusted that Will would say it. He was a direct young man.

She pushed that thought away for the moment, and looked through the rest of the photographs. There were only three more. The second was another shot of Lyra and Serafina on the sofa. In the third, they two were joined by their daemons (“Lyra Silvertongue, Pantalaimon, Queen Serafina Pekkala, and Kaisa," read the spidery script on the back). The fourth and final picture was different. The two women stood framed in a doorway, their hair glittering in the light of the low sun behind them. A pine marten was wrapped about Lyra’s neck as she smiled a genuine, beautiful smile into the camera, and the hood of her coat pushed her hair messily about her face. Serafina, looked serene, ethereal, but happy.

Mary sighed. She knew what must be done.

She dialed a number on her mobile, and waited patiently as it rang, one, two, three times. There was a slight clattering sound and then “Mary, is everything okay?” came Will’s concerned voice over the other end. They rarely phoned each other; their regular meetings were products of longstanding tradition, not appointment making.

“Yes I-I’m fine but I- there’s something I think you should see,” she said, doing her best to keep her voice steady.

“Are you sure everything is okay?” he sounded dubious.

“Yes you silly thing. Just nothing I can describe to you over the phone. I-it’s important."

Regardless of her assurances, Will was concerned. Mary rarely sounded as startled as she had just now. Perhaps she hadn’t realized exactly how shocked she'd sounded.

Will shrugged. He jumped on his bicycle, and peddled the familiar route over to Mary’s place.

***  
He knocked and let himself in, as was their custom. Mary was pacing distractedly in front of a kettle, as though waiting for it to boil. But the stove was not lit. She held an envelope in her hand, and her eyes looked as though she was staring, searching for something very far away. Will cleared his throat to announce himself.

Mary jumped slightly as he pulled her out of her reverie.

“Mary I came over as fast as I could. What’s going on?”

“Oh! Will! I-earlier today I-“ she stopped to collect herself. “About two hours ago, someone pushed this through the mail slot,” she said, holding out a plain, unsealed, un-embellished envelope. "I-" her voice caught again. “I think you should look inside,” she said, finally, softly.

Deeply curious, Will took the envelope from her (slightly shaking) hand. He took a seat at the kitchen table, and slid the envelope's contents out onto the surface before him. He blinked. They were photographs. Old photographs. They looked like ones he’d seen in the university archives. In the photo at the top of the small pile sitting before him, two young women sat on a couch in a formal parlor that looked like something out of the Victorian era (which would suit the photo finish, he thought absently). Their hands were clasped.

And then his heart stopped. One of the young women was Lyra. Her face had greater depth and complexity to it than it had when he had last set eyes on her sweet, lovely face that day in the Botanic Garden. She was more beautiful, but sad, somehow. 

He couldn’t have told you afterwards how long he spent sitting silently, gazing into the eyes of the young woman in that first photograph. 

In the next photo the two women—he dimly recognized the second one as the witch queen Serafina Pekkala—were posing much in the same manner. Holding hands, sitting up straight, and smiling. Lyra looked happier; he could see it in her eyes. He still knew them so well. Perhaps she was simply more comfortable sitting for the camera than she had been in the previous photo.

The women remained seated in the third photo, but this time they were joined by their daemons. A snow goose perched regally on Serafina Pekkala's shoulder, while Pantalaimon, who looked very pleased to be posing for a portrait, sat with his front paws resting on Lyra’s lap. Instead of sitting hands clasped with Serafina, Lyra had one had (tentatively, he thought; how strange) buried in Pan’s fur, while her other hand lay close to Serafina’s.

Mary cleared her throat so quietly that Will doubted that he’d heard anything, but when he looked up, he saw that she’d quietly placed a clean, folded handkerchief on the table beside him. With a start, he realized that his face was wet. He was crying.

In the last photo, Lyra and Serafina were framed in the late afternoon sun. Lyra’s soft, golden hair sat messily about her face as the hood of her heavy, cold weather coat mussed it out of its neat arrangement. Pan was draped about her neck. This time her smile looked genuine. Full of joy, and laughter.

And Will sat in silence. He couldn’t have told you afterwards how much time had passed. Finally, he lookup once more. Mary was seated on the couch in her cozy sitting room, sipping tea, and pretending that she hadn’t been covertly watching him.

“Mary-” he started. His words hung in the air as his mind searched for a way to properly express what was coursing through his heart.

She walked over and sat beside him at the table. “I know,” she said gently,” I know, Will.”

And the two sat quietly together long into the night. Silently, and companionably sipping their tea, as they marveled, separately, at this beautiful, impossible, mystery which had somehow made its way from the Norway of another world to Mary’s flat in Oxford.

***  
Somewhere far, far away, the movements of her wings adding to the music of the stars, Xaphania smiled to herself.

And Dr. Lanselius never did figure out what had happened to that fifth batch of photograms from the day of Lyra Silvertongue and Queen Serafina Pekkala’s visit.


End file.
